


firelight

by glassedplanets



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Mostly Sweet; Slightly Melancholy, Yearning Through Time And Space
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:40:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24446728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassedplanets/pseuds/glassedplanets
Summary: A collection of miscellaneous O14 fills, fragments, etc. Tags apply in general.
Relationships: Osiris/Saint-14 (Destiny)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 53





	1. rain

The rain falls, bitter and acidic, cutting through the sinking acrid air that hangs heavy over the Wall. Saint helps the last Hunter to his feet and sends him stumbling back towards the City with a nudge of Light, his Ghost blinking slowly at him in gratitude. Smoke and steam slink across the ground together, the rain coaxing the latter out, pushing the former away.

“Strange, how victory and survival can be so similar a thing,” Saint muses. 

“Not strange at all,” Osiris replies. The rain can’t seem to decide whether it should fall through the Echo or sublimate against him, thin ribbons of steam blooming into being across his shoulders with no rhyme or reason, no pattern other than endless entropy.

Saint can feel torn fiber across his chest and down his biceps, warning flares across his thighs, and he finally lets the slab of cement fall, mud bursting in a wave across his greaves, joining blood and scorched Ether. Osiris’s shimmering form is pristine, his eyes distant and piercing all at once.

“You can survive without victory.” The Echo is warm as sunlight, beating through the heavy clouds, the low-slung smoke, this rain that seems more punishment than blessing. “You can be victorious without survival. That we have done both today is a testament to everything we can achieve.”

“On this, we agree.” Touching him is like trying to catch a sunbeam, but Saint, fool that he is, does it anyways. “I will see you in the City?”

“I wager you’ll see me in many places,” Osiris responds, and rain weaves another shimmering ribbon of steam through the Echo, wavering and subtle like the amusement in his voice.

“Home,” Saint rephrases. 

He feels the press of a hand on his chest, against the struts of his ribcage, and a wash of heat bursts against his helm as the Echo dissolves.

“Stubborn man,” he mutters to no one in particular, but Gepetto hums quietly, and the smoking Wall, the City skyline is a siren song he can resist no longer.


	2. anger

He’s never had much interest in psychology. The study of _inner_ – there’s no sense in it for him, not when the bounty reaped of fields encompassing _outer_ is so much sweeter. He holds time and space in his hands and exists outside them both. Were he any more arrogant, he’d compare himself to a god. One of thousands roaming this system, but a god nonetheless. 

But this – this makes him think that there might be some truth to ancient, discredited theories of stages and spirals.

The anger.

It hasn’t left.

There’s no room for depression. No time for bargaining, not when he holds the web of time in his hands. Just anger, bright and hot like the spark of Light that woke him long ago / in futures present / in present perfective. No guilt. No shock. No denial. Not anymore.

He guts a Minotaur before it can properly target him and slips away between seconds, sparks trailing hot and bright behind him in these flat, white corridors. 

These Vex took from him and there is nothing he could ever do / will / have done to rip away anything analogous from them in retribution. They’re not people. They don’t lose the way people do. He realized in futures yet to come / present scattered / long ago that the only thing left is to take back what will be / was taken from him. And that the only fuel for this fire is anger. 

Sagira watches him with a bright, sharp eye.

“Saint,” he murmurs, pacing ever forward through incalculable knots of raw data, and in infinite permutations of nothingness and everything, his Echoes whisper on, _Saint_.


	3. family

Ikora steps into the Hangar, losing herself to the hum and buzz of so many people and ships milling about, and the warm light spilling from the Gray Pigeon draws her immediately. Gold, purple, gray. Her heart swells. In the face of all the grief she’s lived through, the hope that rises in her chest at the sight each time tastes more and more beautiful.

The area in front of the Pigeon is unusually free of Guardians. Ikora is returning Amanda’s greeting, her smile bright as ever and her hands dark with grease, when a huddled pair of Guardians walks past her, heads bent, grins broad. They both pause to flash her a quick wave before diving back into their gleeful, quiet whispers and heading back towards the Courtyard.

Interesting. Ikora walks up the long runners – really, Saint could not _possibly_ have been more transparent, this is bordering on ostentatious – and up to the ship. The usual flock of pigeons is settled around the ramp, but the crowd is notably lacking in Guardians.

The soft murmur of voices spills out from inside the ship. All she can see from this angle is two pairs of hands folded together, a broad thumb sweeping gently over a familiar set of modified Sunbracers, the projections over the knuckles jittering at the movement.

Ikora pauses, and lets herself smile.

She makes no attempt to hide her approach, and Saint twists around to look up at her with gentle, happy surprise lighting up his face at the sound of her boots on the ramp.

“Ikora,” he says warmly.

And—

“Ikora.”

Osiris bolts to his feet in an instant, hands falling out of Saint’s grip. Ikora feels somewhat gratified in the faint flush on his cheeks.

“Osiris,” she says evenly. “It’s good to see you. Here. On the Tower. In person.”

Behind him, Saint sits back and smiles like he’s just seen a trap sprung.

* * *

Saint is still laughing, hours later, when Osiris finally slips back aboard the Gray Pigeon looking distinctly ruffled.

“You cannot tell me you are scared of your own daughter,” he says, and something akin to panic flies across Osiris’s face. “ _Osiris_.”

“I’m not– She’s not—” He grabs Saint’s wrist, stalling his efforts to pull the cloak off of his shoulders. “She and so many others were unwilling to listen to me. Still are. And so much could have been avoided if–”

“Osiris,” Saint interrupts, “let’s not waste time. We both know you were happy to see her.” He works his wrist out of Osiris’s hand and pushes his cloak off, catching it swiftly before it can slide onto the floor. “And that I am too.”

“And I you, my dear,” Osiris says, eyeing him warily, “but–”

“No _but_ ,” Saint interrupts, pulling his scarf down and arranging it neatly around his neck. “Stop thinking.”

“You might as well ask me to stop breathing,” Osiris scoffs, but doesn’t protest when Saint curls a hand around his chin and steps close.

“Is this where I say something about taking your breath away?” Saint asks, and Osiris finally gives in and presses a light, slow kiss against the familiar, solid warmth of his jaw.

“Perhaps,” Osiris replies, finally smiling, “or you could act, instead of talking.”


	4. enthralled

Osiris makes no noise as he transmats into the Lighthouse, and he is immediately assailed by Saint's booming voice; he sounds almost hoarse, like he's been shouting in glee for hours. He probably has. Sagira hums quietly.

Geppetto turns and blinks at them, slowly, looking between them both. Sagira tips her shell in greeting; Osiris says nothing. Geppetto turns back to Saint silently, eye glinting knowingly.

Saint doesn't even pause for breath, much less to turn around. Osiris pays no attention to what he's saying, encouragement, callouts, whatever it might be; he's much more interested in the way the sun drenches his armor and licks up his back like flame. These fields were forged in fire, and Saint is a radiant spark dressed in gold. Like flame and tinder, Osiris is caught.

Saint watches the match. Osiris watches Saint. Sunlight washes over his armor like a living thing as he moves, pacing, eyes locked on the match below him, and Osiris wonders how anyone can stand to bathe in his presence without burning. How his own Solar Light could possibly be anything other than pitiable in the face of _this,_ how the Sun doesn’t flee in shame at the sight of him.

The match ends with a team having earned their seventh win. Scopes glint in the harsh light as the fireteam, flawless, barrels towards them, shouts of glee echoing across the sands.

Osiris brushes his fingers against the small of Saint's back, right where the unyielding curve of his breastplate gives way to lighter shielding, and immediately he ducks to avoid the automatic, instinctive Void-tinged swing that follows as Saint reacts to the touch on nothing but reflex.

"Is that any way to greet me?" Osiris asks, amused, drawing back up his full height and folding his arms. The air is still alive with Saint's excitement, his Light dense and beautiful. He wants to drown his hands in it, feel it against his skin, draw it into his veins so he is full of nothing else.

"Osiris," Saint says, voice bright with shock, and the momentum of his surprise carries him forward. “I– forgive me.”

His hands light briefly on Osiris's elbows, then slide up to his shoulders, leaving eddies of warmth and Void in their wake, and then Saint's broad palm cups his cheek with far too many layers between them. Osiris turns his head in toward that familiar curve, the smell of metal and leather and heat rising between them.

"I was not expecting you," Saint murmurs, voice warmer than the Sun could ever hope to be. 

"Clearly," Osiris snorts, and does not move. Like an animal drowsing in sunlight. Saint’s other hand picks at his scarf, neatening a fold. “You were so engrossed in the match, a full Cabal regiment could have landed and you wouldn’t have noticed.”

Saint snorts right back, then sighs and leans forward to press his helm against the very top of Osiris’s cowl, the proud line of his crest bowing to simple feathered cloth. Osiris closes his eyes, just briefly, and patiently pushes away at every clamoring cell of him that begs to stay.

"You do not need to check up on me," Saint mutters. If Osiris did not know any better, he'd misunderstand that tone as petulance. 

"No," Osiris agrees, "but I want to."


End file.
